Where is our loyal savior,
On this day of hope forlorn?
Who will be the messenger
Of optimistic report;
Bearing forward on the lust
Of blighted peoples,
Sadly guiding a blinded world?

I lay in repose,
On a hill so very far away,
And contemplate the course of man,
Careening toward savage destruction,
Collective delusion intact,
Believing that today,
Is just another day.

I am chilled,
In  momentary vision,
On behalf of this world,
Bequeathed to a new generation.
I fear they are not to be trusted,
With the treasures
Of ten thousand years,
But so it is,
And so it has always been.


Ah, but I grow tired,
As ardent virility viciously recedes,
And despite the fears
Of a passing age,
We must relinquish
The keys to the kingdom,
Lest legend tell the tale
Of our own bitter failure.

And so, dear savior,
May you hear
As I beckon from afar.
The evil sultan is at the gate,
Sword drawn,
Even as I speak.
I pray that fabled wind blows true ,
And mercy is thy true st trait,
For I am undeserving,
As are others of my kind.

Bear us up if you will,
Trusting in our well-meaning lies,
And lend value in these dreadful days,
To our own good intentions.
Yes, it is true ,
I’m so very sad to say,
That we felt the fiend ever looming,
Yet abandoned the Ancient of Days.